


no sleep for dreaming

by madfatty



Category: My Mad Fat Diary
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 10:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7570654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madfatty/pseuds/madfatty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>She wasn’t going to go; didn’t know the first thing about funerals; what the rules were, how long she should stay, what she should do. She’d never even met Finn’s nan and it felt wrong to intrude on something as awful and as private as their family grief. But then Finn had called and asked if she would come and it wasn’t until her mother explained that funerals were more about comforting the living than burying the dead that she relented.</i> </p><p>It's a week after his grandmother's funeral and Finn needs to talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no sleep for dreaming

Even from the front door he can hear the myriad of sounds that fill the house. There’s the controlled explosion of noise coming from the living room; football playing loudly on the television and a man’s grumbling disappointment in a foreign tongue; the lid-rattling bubble and hiss of pots on the stove in the kitchen; and the most comforting of all, he can hear music cascading down from Rae’s room and pooling at the bottom of the stairs. Finn feels some of the tightness in his chest loosen as he eagerly leans forward into the soothing cacophony. He steps through into the hallway, barely waiting for Linda to ask him in. 

The house is warm and loud and normal. There’s a surge of guilt at feeling so glad to be away from his own house, away from his dad and all his sadness. He feels selfish that he has somewhere he can go to feel better, just for a little while. He wishes his dad had the same thing.

When Rae’s mum doesn’t move to embrace him, he’s grateful. People have been trying to comfort him all week; aunties and uncles and neighbours, the ladies from Nan’s bowls team. All these strangers think that they know what he needs, how he feels, what will fix him. No matter how stiff he stands, no matter what distance he puts between them, well-meaning old ladies breach the invisible no-man’s land he’s constructed and clutch at him with bony hands. He wants to peel away his skin where they’ve tried to prise out the hurt, tried to hurry the healing, as if the clock is already winding down on his allotted time to grieve, as if putting her in a box in the ground means he should put his pain in a box on a shelf and go on. As if the ties between them stopped at blood and name. She resides further down, in the meat and bone of him where they can never touch her. No one seems to understand; he’s always seconds away from screaming. It can’t be made better. It can’t be soothed or stolen away. For all their well-practiced speeches of loss and grief and better places, no-one seems to really feel it and none of them can look him in the eye. 

Rae’s mum does though. She tells him that she’s sorry for his loss and he believes her. Rae’s mum says Nan’s name and speaks fondly of her, like she knew her, like they might have been friends. He wishes he’d known that. So many things he hadn’t known. She tells him he looks terrible which makes him want to laugh. She says it’s little bloody wonder though, as she pats his shoulder briefly, and the kindness in her eyes makes him want to cry. 

Maybe it’s this house, or the girl upstairs, or maybe it’s just time. He doesn’t know what it was about today that drove him out of his room and into the shower for the first time in days. Why cleaning his teeth and a fresh change of clothes didn’t feel like too much to deal with. Why today, leaving the house didn’t seem so impossible. That’s a lie. He does know. Everything he’s been holding in is bubbling in his chest, ready to come spilling out and Rae’s the one he wants to tell. He’s been waiting just to tell her.

He’s not prepared for how hard the feeling hits him. It’s not the breath stuck in his throat that’s making his eyes well or has him propped against the hallway wall. Linda stands close, quiet; her fingers loosely clasped around his elbow, her eyes holding him in place. One breath, another; a third. He has to stop himself from leaning in to her. With a nod, on the fourth breath Linda drops her grip and turns and leads the way to the room upstairs. He follows on shaky legs. 

Her room. It’s the last place he’d felt safe. Surrounded by her things, her books, her music, her posters. It’s the first place he pictured when he thought to escape. All it takes is a moment and he feels himself start to settle. He can’t see Rae from where he is, stood behind Linda as she tries to get Rae’s attention, but just running his fingers along the wall, touching the funny little cartoony characters on her wallpaper is a comfort. He can’t wait anymore and brushes past Linda to step further into the room. Relief rises like a tide. He wades into the waves of it, lets it swallow him down. He wants to close his eyes against the force of it but he can’t. He can’t take his eyes off Rae.

It’s only at the look of surprise on her face that he realises he should have called first. He’d only been thinking about what he needed, he hadn’t once considered that Rae might be busy. Or that she might not want to see him. That it’s not okay for him to be here. That she was only being kind before. He’s got this all wrong. He’s not welcome. He’s intruding and the disappointment and embarrassment knocks the wind right out of him.

Before he can apologise and back out of the door, Rae is saying something he can’t hear over the music. She reaches for the CD player and the room is suddenly silent. He returns her stammered greeting and waits for her to tell him he should go but she doesn’t, instead she smiles at him so warmly and he knows that coming here was the right thing to do.

He follows her questioning gaze down to his side and is suddenly reminded of his father’s gift to her, sweet peas he thinks, from their garden, wrapped in brown kitchen paper and string, now a little worse for wear from his bouncing them distractedly against his leg. Finn offers them to her timidly, mumbling that his dad had wanted to say thank you for all the help she’d been at the funeral. Rae doesn’t reach for them right away; she only stares at them bewildered and blushing, seemingly uncertain of what to do with his sentiment and the half strangled flowers, and protests that she hadn’t done much at all. Finn stands awkwardly with his arm still outstretched, waving the sagging bunch of white and pink and purple blooms insistently at her. Linda takes pity on him and the flowers, prising them gently from his hand, clucking at their beauty and at Rae to say thank you. She leaves with the promise of hot tea and vases.

Finn watches as Linda carries the flowers from the room, feeling bereft now that he’s surrendered them. Without them, he no longer has an excuse to stay. 

With her mother gone, Rae seems to remember herself; teasing him gently as she motions to the bed for him to sit. His eyes follow her as she moves about the room, searching through her tapes to find something to play, fiddling with the volume and straightening the stacks of books on her desk. When she runs out of things to fuss with, she turns hesitantly towards him, her hands twisting, her smile soft. He shifts along the mattress to make room for her.

Finally, she asks him how he is and after a week of silence, he speaks. 

At first, it’s just about the funeral. The music and the people and the strangeness of having a party for someone who can’t be there. How glad he was that Rae had come and how sad he was that the two of them had never met.

He confesses he feels stupid for believing his mum. How she’d called from Spain and promised she’d be there, but then she wasn’t and what that had done to his dad. And to him. How they should have known not to hope because she always lets them down. Always. He’s mostly angry about that. And a little bit hurt; which is why he feels stupid. 

Without meaning to, he tells her how he can’t sleep, how the house is too quiet now his nan is gone and how he spends most of the night listening for her. How he goes looking for her in the darkness of the very early hours of the morning, hoping it’s all been an elaborate joke, hoping he’ll catch her out in the kitchen, having a cup of tea and a crafty fag, pouring over the weekend’s race guide. That she’ll look up at him with that sly smile of hers and mouth “Gotcha,” as she rises from her chair and comes to him, gathering him to her, her hands soothing circles on his back while he cries and she whispers in his ear how much she loves him and he can feel her against him again, real and solid and there.  
He doesn’t tell Rae how long he spends standing in the empty kitchen. 

He whispers that he can’t let himself relax. If he relaxes, something bad will happen to his dad. He doesn’t know what exactly but he’s scared he’ll wake up and his dad will be gone too. How he wishes he wasn’t too big now to crawl into bed with him like he did when he was little, so he spends what’s left of his night sitting vigil outside Gary’s bedroom door every night, making sure he’s safe. Making sure he’s still there.

He’s scared that they’re both just shadows now, ghosting around a house too big without her. He’s scared of how different things are. How he’s still not convinced she won’t come back. If he just believes enough, maybe she’ll come back. 

He’s worried that she didn’t know how much he loved her and he regrets all the things he didn’t get to say because he always thought there’d be time. And maybe it’s because he didn’t tell her, that she won’t come back. 

He wants to know what’s going to happen to him now, now that she’s gone. How there’s a buzzing in his head, like voices, all the time and he asks Rae if she thinks he’s going mad. What happens if he does? 

He talks until he has nothing left to say.

They sit together on her bed, backs propped against the wall, not touching, not talking, but she’s there and it’s all he really needs. There’s the soothing lull of the music and there’s that smell he’s been craving all week. Sharp and sweet, reaching out to something deep within him. And there’s the weight of sweet sleep itself, pushing him down. He wants to fight it now he’s here, but he feels safe enough to finally give himself over to it. 

The gentle hum as she begins to speak quietly pulls him in, his head turned towards the sound of her voice, his fingers splayed against the duvet, reaching for the warmth radiating from her, just out of reach. It all begins to swirl around him, wrapping him up, soft and fuzzy. Insistent hands gently plucking at him until he lets go, lets himself fall, heavy limbed into an ocean of tall, green grass, cradled by the warm earth beneath him. He lies pinned into place by the heavy heat of the sun, feels it pressing against his eyes, sending him deeper and deeper down. He senses movement around him, feels himself being shifted but he can offer no assistance from where he is. Whispers low and muffled; the lazy buzz of honey-fat bees is a welcome blanket, a thick, rich syrup coating his senses. She’s receding, but he can’t keep up. She’s pulling away, and blind panic drags out the last of his energy. He reaches out to grab a hold of her. He begs a favour but he doesn’t know if it’s out loud. _Can I stay for a bit?_ He has no other thought but this before he’s gone.

++++

With the door closed and the music so loud and her so far inside her own head she doesn’t hear them enter the room. She’d been thinking about him, about how he was and where he was and how none of them had seen or heard from him in the days after the funeral and then suddenly he’s there, appearing in the middle of her room like some magician’s trick. She half-believes she’s conjured him herself, through sheer force of want and a trick of late afternoon light, though if she has, she's remembered him wrong because this version of him is blurred and undefined. He is shadow and bone, the dark smudges staining the delicate skin beneath his hollow eyes a stark contrast to the pallor of his drawn, bloodless face. His hair hangs heavy and unkempt over his forehead but remains untouched. He makes no move to fuss with it as he normally would. His hands are occupied with jangling against his thighs in a nervous rhythm contrary to the discordant music of the brown paper package he’s holding.

The next few minutes are painfully awkward. Her undisguised confusion at him being there, the not knowing where to look while her mother stands there watching them stammering at each other. The flowers. He’d brought her flowers.

***

_She wasn’t going to go; didn’t know the first thing about funerals; what the rules were, how long she should stay, what she should do. She’d never even met Finn’s nan and it felt wrong to intrude on something as awful and as private as their family grief. But then Finn had called and asked if she would come and it wasn’t until her mother explained that funerals were more about comforting the living than burying the dead that she relented._

_She’d planned to leave right after the service but Finn had caught hold of her sleeve at the church and made her promise to come back to the house, so she’d hidden herself in the kitchen with the aunties and the ladies from the neighbourhood, keeping herself elbow deep in hot soapy water for the best part of the afternoon, her eyes focused on the reddened skin of her hands or out the window at the mid-summer beauty of the Nelson’s back garden. She hadn’t seen him to speak to for the rest of the day but occasionally, she’d look up to find him standing on his own in the yard, just staring at the back of the house and smoking until the push of well-meaning mourners drove him away._

_She’d wondered at their ease, these ladies she shared the kitchen with, seasoned veterans in this macabre dance, every one. The masterful way they navigated their course around the weave of wave and whisper of loss and grief, armed only with tea and cake and gentle gossip. She’d been thankful for their noise and the clank and rattle of the endless rotation of plates and teacups, both a welcome distraction from some of the darker thoughts that had started to gather in the church._

_As time forged on in its relentless way, the afternoon confusingly spread from sober mumblings to raucous laughter and Rae wondered if this was what they meant by life after death._

_Rae had been happy to help but she was grateful when it was over. She’d come home and hugged her mother long and hard, exhausted and tremulous and frightened of what might have been if things had gone differently in March._

_Her efforts hardly seemed worthy of flowers._

***

His hands continue to move after he’s relinquished the flowers to her mother; they are the only animated thing about him, flexing and scratching at each other under his unwavering gaze. 

“I’m… I’m sorry to just show up. I should have called first.”

“Don’t be daft.” She scoffs and motions to the bed. “You should sit down, before you fall down. You make the place look untidy.”

He smiles weakly and lowers himself slowly onto her bed. All the air seems to go out of him as he works his way backwards until he’s resting against the wall.

“Do you want to listen to some music?” she asks, needing to fill the silence.

“Sure.”

“What do you want to hear?”

“I don’t mind. You choose.” He shrugs and it looks as if it takes everything he’s got to do it.

She dithers over what to play, stupid really when they share the same taste, but it eats up some time, as does straightening up her books and tapes and fussing with the volume. She doesn’t know why she’s putting off talking to him, but she is. When there’s nothing left to distract her, she finally turns to face him. He looks so small and still, like he’s bleeding into the wall. 

“So, how are you? You alright?” she asks him softly from across the room, still hesitant to get too close.

“Yeah.” He says automatically then catches himself. He shakes his head and sighs. “No. Not really.” He looks up at her with eyes wide and wet and her heart buckles.

“Sorry. That was a stupid bloody question.” She feels like such an idiot. She can’t do this. She’s not built for it. She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do or how she’s supposed to help him but when he scratches at the space beside him she makes herself to go to him. 

He twists a little bit away from the wall so he can see her face, his eyes searching hers as he begins to talk and talk while she listens, never looking away, even when his gaze drops to his hands. His voice doesn’t rise above a murmur, and with every new confession his head slips closer and closer towards her shoulder. His breath evens out and the time between each revelation is drawn out longer and longer until he falls silent. 

The last thing he’d asked was what if he was going mad and she panics just a little. She wonders what’s given her away that he would think she’d know? 

But he’s just sad, not crazy, so she doesn’t mention her own checklist; the razor and the scalding, the counting or the repetitions or a hundred other things she’d witnessed in the hospital, but she does talk about the music, and their friends and how writing down how you feel, even if no one but you will ever read it, can help. It’s one of those moments when it feels like the right thing to do, to share something of her true self. She waits, afraid she’s said too much, but when she’s finally brave enough to turn and face him, he’s asleep. The weight of his head on her shoulder is almost as heavy as the weight of her heart in her mouth.

She tries to manoeuvre herself out from under him and lie him down. 

“No…” he whines as he falls into the empty space she used to occupy, his head at an awkward angle. He’s heavier than he looks as she tries to negotiate him into a more comfortable position.

“Shh, It’s okay. C’mon. Lie down.” she whispers as she shifts him further up onto her pillow.

Even in his sleep he reaches for her, his fingers wobbling like drunken spiders across the duvet in search of her and settling solidly around her wrist. She lowers herself back down next to him and although there’s no one there to see, her face burns with embarrassment, teetering precariously along the edge of the bed. She swings one leg up, keeping her other foot on the floor to balance herself, certain she is too big to fit into the space he’s left. She settles back against the bedhead and tries to hold herself in, feeling graceless and ungainly. He sighs, apparently content with his current position sandwiched snugly between her and the wall. He shifts, leaning further forward until his face is pressing into the curve of her hip. His body angles around hers, his arm snaking over her thighs. 

It’s her instinct to touch, not to be touched, no matter how much she craves it, but he cannot be avoided. There’d been no time, no opportunity to arrange herself artfully before him and now he’s too close, wrapped around all the worst parts of her and there’s nowhere to hide. Her skin itches everywhere and there’s an overwhelming urge to push him off of her and flee. Instead, she takes a deep breath and counts to ten.

She hears her mother coming this time. The huff of Linda’s laboured breath as she climbs the stairs, the clink of the ceramic mugs bouncing against each other with every step, the groan of the floorboards on the landing all act as warning. Rae arranges her features with a calm she doesn’t feel as Linda nudges the bedroom door open wider and enters with the tea and a heavy clear glass vase barely containing the extravagant spill of soft pastel coloured flowers that has Rae blushing again at Mr Nelson’s thoughtfulness.  
She braces herself for battle, apprehensive of her mother’s thoughts on him being here, convinced her Mum will make a fuss and wake him and embarrass her. She tries to pry the possessive hold of Finn’s clenched fingers from the leg of her jeans but the harder she tries, the more he protests and his grip tightens. Linda doesn’t seem to notice, or at least she doesn’t say anything as she hands Rae her tea, resting Finn’s on the bedside table. 

The room is quiet, save for Finn’s slightly snuffled breathing. Rae watches her mother’s progress warily as she works her way around the room. Linda moves over to the desk, deliberating where to place the vase. She shifts it from one corner to the other and back again, finally satisfied, then plucks haphazardly at the stems until the arrangement pleases her. She turns towards the window, briefly glancing out at the street before pulling the curtains closed against the deepening dark outside. She reaches for the bedside lamp and snaps it on and both women wince at the sudden brightness in the room. 

Linda stands silently over the two of them for a long time, her arms crossed against her chest. Rae recognises the familiar pose but not the tender look of sympathy on her mother’s face. It’s her uncharacteristic silence that’s making Rae edgy. Linda reaches for the spare blanket at the foot of the bed and gently covers Finn with it. 

“It’s just hotpot for tea, but there’s enough for two more. I’ll call his dad to come over. Just let him sleep for now.” Linda whispers.

Rae nods, wide-eyed with wonder at this alien version of her mother. Linda lingers a moment longer, her gaze eventually switching from the sleeping boy to her daughter. 

“Are you alright? This is not too much for you?” Linda asked quietly, her fingers waving in tiny circles between Rae and Finn.

Rae’s voice catches in her throat, touched by her mother’s concern. “Yeah, no. I’m okay.” She nods reassuringly when her mother’s questioning look intensifies.

Linda sighs deeply as she lets her arms drop and turns towards the door. “Do you need anything?”

Rae points towards her desk, careful not to disturb Finn. “Could you pass my book? The face down one at the back.” 

Linda returns to the desk, her fingers lightly brushing over the petals of the closest stem before collecting the book. As an afterthought, she adjusts the volume of the music.

“You’re a good person, Chicken, I hope you know that.” Linda murmurs as she hands her the book and heads out of the room.

From the doorway, Linda says “But it’s just this once, okay Rachel?”

Rae tries hard to focus on the words on the page but her eyes keep falling back to his face, ashen but peaceful, hidden in the shadow of the curve of her belly. She lets the book drop to her lap and allows herself to study him. All the secret hopes she holds are reduced to the gentle hum of background noise beneath the fierce swell of protectiveness that sweeps over her. There are things he said to her today, unexpected things that she recognises, and he looks different to her now. More real, more human. More like her.

She wishes she were brave enough to touch him, run her fingers over his bare arm or through his hair. Instead she reaches for her tea. It fills her mouth, warms her insides just as the weight of Finn’s body warms her outsides and she marvels at the strangeness of the day.

She wonders what they must look like. It must look like so little to ask of her but it feels like so much.

Like her mother said, it’s just this once.


End file.
